


Bang Bang (My Baby Shot Me Down)

by tristinai



Series: Bad Decisions [3]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blood, Coitus Interruptus, Convin Angst, First Time Fight, Fluff and Angst, Gunshot Wounds, Hand Jobs, Hannor, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Manipulation, Unresolved Emotional Tension, gangster au, gangster!Nines, past Convin, reed900, suturing wounds, there's nothing happy about the Convin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-02
Updated: 2019-03-02
Packaged: 2019-11-08 01:15:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17971700
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tristinai/pseuds/tristinai
Summary: Gavin’s having a shitty day. So Nines tries to do something nice to make him feel better. And of course, that’s when Gavin makes it worse.AKA The one where Gavin and Nines fight.





	Bang Bang (My Baby Shot Me Down)

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to everyone who has commented and provided kudos for this series. Your encouragement means everything to me and were it not for you, or [NixObscura](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NixObscura/pseuds/NixObscura), I would have stopped after the first part. Now, because some of you wanted it, here is part three! Please make sure to read all of the tags before proceeding onto the fic. Enjoy!
> 
> Lots of love for the amazing [Mellondrops](https://mellondrops.tumblr.com) for making some beautiful artwork of my favorite gangster! Thank you so much <3! You can check it out [here.](https://mellondrops.tumblr.com/post/183221153729/the-hopeless-romantic-nines-fanart-for-the%22)

“This is bullshit, Con! You can’t—” Noticing the attention being drawn to them, Gavin lowers his voice, though it does little to reel in his anger as he snaps, “You can’t do this to me! Not after all the hours I’ve put in trying to take that fucker down! Fuck sakes, I was pulling graveyard while you and Hank were fucking off in Hawaii for your god damn honeymoon!”

 

Connor’s lips pull in a grim expression but Gavin doesn’t miss the guilt in those warm, brown eyes. Seated at the edge of Gavin’s desk, the lieutenant folds his hands in his lap, and Gavin can already guess at what scripted crap he’s about to be fed as Connor goes from ‘partner’ to ‘boss’ mode. “It’s not a decision I came to easily, Gav. I am aware of how important the Kamski case is to you, as it is to this department. However, I have had to consider how best to utilize our detectives and I feel—”

 

“Don’t you give me that shit,” Gavin hisses, gripping the arms of his chair so tightly, his knuckles are turning white. “I know this case better than the rookie fuckwads you’ve been sending on those stakeouts. Fuck, Chen’s usually got her shit together and even she’s barely kept up with all the crap you’ve piled on her since the promotion. You _need_ me on this case, Con!”

 

“Your capabilities as a detective are not in question,” he starts and he’s using that diplomatic tone of his. Fuck, does Gavin _hate_ when Connor does that, speaking as if he’s advocating for everyone’s best interests when it’s his way of taking a god damn side without committing to it. “And were the circumstances different, I would keep you on this case. Yet, here are the facts: our failed undercover sting nearly jeopardized our investigation and, more importantly, almost exposed your identity to the contacts you made who are connected to Kamski. Had that night gone differently—”

 

“But it didn’t and for the millionth, fucking time, I got my ass out of there before shit hit the fan!” Gavin gets up abruptly, his chair squeaking against the floor. He fists his hands, feels them shake at his sides, and only barely keeps himself from shouting as he gets right in Connor’s face. “So stop acting like this is what we _all_ want when this is just you trying to run my fucking life! You may have a shiny new badge but you don’t get to go pulling god damn rank on me every time you decide you don’t like the risks that come with my god damn job!”

 

“This isn’t personal, Gavin—”

 

“Well it sure fucking seems like it! Where the fuck was this last month after you made me stay at that fucking safe house? I’ve been doing this job, working this case—”

 

“And yet I have had to keep you confined to desk work because I cannot send you out in the field,” Connor says, his voice hitting a decibel above the hushed tone he’s attempting to use. Gavin can hear the edge in Connor’s voice, the lieutenant’s struggle to keep his impatience from showing. “I can’t send you to scout places of interest because someone might recognize you as ‘Dex’. When we discovered Lyle Brady’s body last week, I couldn’t send you to question any known associates or suspects of the victim because, again, half of those people knew you as Dex—”

 

Gavin tries not to think of Lyle Brady, the dealer he’d been drinking with the night he was jumped and brought to the warehouse. Lyle Brady, 39 years old, asshole with multiple counts of possession and aggravated assault and the same cunt who knocked Gavin out that night. The detective had no love lost for the prick but it didn’t ease the unsettling feeling of finding the month old corpse and immediately having a lead spring to mind, one at least that he can connect to the bullet wound in the vic’s foot.

 

Gavin had said nothing, puttered about the crime scene with Connor and feigned interest in what little evidence they had. There was nothing to suggest Nines had done it, fingerprints found at the site connecting Dirk Jones to the location. But it hasn’t stopped the doubt from creeping into the back of his head even as their prime suspect, Dirk Jones, remains at large.

 

“—having you on the case makes you a liability, Gavin. And, quite frankly, is a waste of our resources when we have other cases you could invest more of your time into solving.”

 

“Yeah, well you know what? You might tell yourself this is you putting the needs of the department first but I’m not gonna sit back and let you steal this case from me!”

 

“And I am telling you, as your _boss_ ,” and the way he emphasizes his rank only fuels the ire raging inside Gavin, “that you are no longer part of the Kamski investigation! Don’t make this more difficult than it has to be, Gav.”

 

Gavin’s chuckle is cold and without any humor.

 

“You really wanna do this, Con? Then how about I take it to your fucking _boss_ and let him know you’re letting your personal shit interfere with your fucking job,” Gavin sneers, poking Connor hard in the chest.

 

Turning on his heel, Gavin storms across the bullpen to the captain’s office. Only belatedly does he realize what a fucking stupid idea this is, taking his complaint to Captain Hank Anderson but he figures that if Hank shows any favoritism in siding with his husband, there’s always Human Resources. He’ll throw both those assholes under the bus for taking this case from him and, potentially, all the credit that comes with all the work he’s put into the last six months of this investigation.

 

He barely waits for an invitation, is already rushing inside and only just keeps from slamming the door behind him. For his own sanity, Gavin avoids Hank like he’s god damn herpes, his disdain for the captain manifesting itself into a hatred that’s only grown more acerbic the more time passes. There was a time when they were friends—not the best of friends but at least got on well enough to enjoy the occasional beer or catch a Pistons game every now and then—but that all changed _after_ Connor moved out and it became clear Connor wasn’t coming back. For reasons that have everything to do with that fucking gold band Hank wears.

 

Gavin sees Hank tense—and then sigh, no different than Fowler had done the times Gavin came marching in here—and there’s an implied eye roll as the Captain asks, with a lot of reluctance, “What is it now, Reed?”

 

Fucker pretty much stole Gavin’s last boyfriend and he’s got the nerve to act as if he’s the one whose life is difficult.

 

“I’d like to lodge a complaint against Lieutenant Stern—”

 

“—Anderson.”

 

And Gavin loves the way Hank grits that out, finds some petty satisfaction in getting under the prick’s skin. “Right, Anderson. Kinda hard to get used to.”

 

“Well, get used to it. It’s not that difficult, Reed: there’s only been a Lieutenant Anderson at this precinct since you were fresh out of the academy. Same name, different face. It wouldn’t kill you to show some god damn respect to your superior.”

 

Superior? What a fucking joke. Connor’s good but he didn’t get to where he was without Reed. They’ve been partners since Connor’s first day at the precinct; everything Connor’s learned, he learned from Gavin. The only reason Gavin’s not wearing that new badge is the universe deciding that 2038 was the year of _Fuck Over Gavin Reed._

 

“Respect?” Gavin spits out, bristling once more. “Yeah, I’ll show that fucker some respect when he stops trying to edge me out of the Kamski case! That’s his play, isn’t it? Make me do all the fucking ground work and then kick my ass to the curb so ‘Anderson and Anderson’ can get all the fucking glory!”

 

He’s reaching. Gavin knows he’s fucking reaching here: Connor’s got no interest in stealing his thunder and given how much shit’s still between them, Gavin knows Connor’s concern comes from a genuine place. But it doesn’t change that this has been _Gavin’s case_ , this is supposed to be Gavin’s big break and he’ll be damned if he lets anyone take that away after all the blood and sweat he’s put into this investigation.

 

“Get your head out of your ass, Reed! You know damn well that you’ve been benched every time a new lead’s come up because half of the low life’s dealing for Kamski think you’re some brown-nosed informant,” Hank snaps, standing up from his chair and pointing emphatically towards Connor’s desk on the other side of the tinted glass walls. “Connor’s doing what any reasonable lieutenant would: he’s putting you where you can be of use instead of letting you piss and moan away at your god damn desk while Chen picks up the slack!”

 

“I’ll be of use on the Kamski case, not fucking around at every break-in and listening to some doped up punk’s sob story about needing the cash for medical shit while he’s flying higher than a fucking kite! This is bullshit and if you think I’m gonna sit by and let Connor—!”

 

“Connor’s not the one who wants you off the case!”

 

And that actually silences Gavin’s rant, has him glaring quizzically at the captain. “The fuck does that mean?”

 

“Look, Con’s new to this. He’s,” and Hank struggles to keep his tone even, is doing that same diplomacy shit Connor likes to pull, “he’s still trying to figure out how to be a leader. And sometimes, Connor lets his personal feelings get in the way of his judgment: he’s kept you on the case even though anyone with two cents would have dropped you the second that shit went down with Brady and his guys. He kept you on, Reed, because he knows how much this case means to you, even if you’re working from a desk.”

 

Slowly, the pieces are fitting together. But Gavin doesn’t need to draw his own conclusions as Hank’s already confirming them.

 

“The precinct’s been swamped for months now and we can use you somewhere else, where you’re not some glorified paperweight.” And Hank pauses, gives Gavin a hard look, “I’m the one who told Connor to remove you from the investigation. So if you’re gonna blame anyone, blame me.”

 

He’s stunned into silence, let’s all of it sink in. But as the seconds tick by, his shock festers until he feels a cold, sinking dread no different than the betrayal he felt when Connor and Hank could no longer keep their new relationship secret from him.

 

Why is it that every time the universe fucks him over, Hank fucking Anderson is always there at ground zero?

 

And Gavin does the one thing he tells himself he would never let happen: he makes it personal.

 

“So it wasn’t enough that you stole my fucking boyfriend, you also had to go and steal my fucking case, too!”

 

“Reed—” Hank warns but Gavin’s only just getting started.

 

“Take all that credit for yourself after _I_ put in all that time, went on all those shitty stakeouts. Fuck, I’m the one who fucking ID’d Connor’s psycho twin,” and Gavin feels guilty saying that, why the fuck does he feel guilty? “our first real fucking break, as Kamski’s ‘Professional Problem Solver,’” Jesus fucking Christ, how is it that Nines’ own euphemistic title for himself managed to stick? “and you’ve got the fucking nerve to throw me under the bus while you’re plowing my fucking ex?”

 

“Gavin, that’s eno—!”

 

“But I’m the fucking asshole because I want some god damn recognition for the shit I was doing while you and Con were sipping god damn Mai Thais in fucking Honolulu! You know what, I’m done playing fucking nice and I don’t give a shit if you’re the god damn Captain of this fucking joke of a precinct!

 

“Reed!”

 

And Gavin sees how red-faced Anderson is, how he’s only just holding back his own vitriol.

 

It was always inevitable they would reach this point, that they could no longer avoid that growing rift they’ve filled with mutual contempt for one another: Gavin, for all Hank took that was _his,_ and Hank, for the shit Gavin put Connor through that led to Connor showing up teary eyed at his doorstep.

 

“Well, you want to know _exactly_ what I think of you, Hank fucking Anderson?” Gavin sneers, leaning over the table, ready to unleash every vitriolic thought he’s had of the Captain over the last year. “You’re nothing but a—!”

 

One giant screaming match later, Gavin’s storming towards his desk, tugs his worn, leather coat so roughly off the chair that it collides into the desk behind it, and continues on his warpath to the exit. He ignores all the looks he’s given, tells one of the rookies to go fuck himself, and exchanges a look with Tina that says _Not now!_ when she attempts to follow him. The last thing he needs is to alienate the one person in this place who would no doubt be on his side and right now, he’s fucking angry enough to punch the next prick who so much as greets him.

 

He barely makes it past reception when he hears quick footfalls pursue him, knows the sound of that gait as well as he knows the grip of the same man’s hand on his cock. “Gavin—”

 

“You’re fucking dick of a husband suspended me! Says I need a few days to ‘cool off’! So, congrats, seems your ‘Ruin Gavin Reed’s Day’ party is going off without a fucking hitch!”

 

He jabs his finger on the button of the elevator, rage-fueled adrenaline making his hands shake.

 

“Look, let me talk to Hank—!”

 

Gavin reels around, ready to dish it out as he had done with Hank. But when he sees the concern on Connor’s face, the guilt that has him turning those sad, brown eyes on Gavin—and fuck, part of him can never get used to how many times he’s been the reason they get like that like—Gavin begins to feel himself deflate. And suddenly, he’s just _tired._

 

“Con, I have put up with a lot—and I mean a lot—of your fucking shit this last year—”

 

“As I am aware, Gav, and believe me, I wish that things could be—”

 

“No, you don’t get to fucking talk over me this time!” Gavin snaps, lowering his voice as he notices some civilians glancing over in their direction. “You’re _always_ fucking apologizing and you know what? It’s not enough. It’s never gonna be fucking enough because this—” and he indicates to the space between them, “is never going to be the same. And I’m just—fuck, I’m just _done._ ”

 

The tension between them is almost as horrible as that final fight as boyfriends, when both their voices were hoarse from screaming and that deafening silence pervaded between them. The first to break it were those words that had shattered Gavin as, after some time, Connor looked at him sadly and said, “ _I can’t do this anymore, Gav.”_

 

Never had Gavin hated any string of words as much as he hated those.

 

“What are you saying, Gav?”

 

The elevator opens behind him and Gavin knows these next words will hurt, knows that this feels like they’re breaking up all over again. “I’m saying that when I get back, maybe...we should rethink the whole ‘partners’ thing.”

 

It’s always been Connor and Gavin. Detectives Reed and Stern, the best damn team on the force. Seven years, they’ve survived bullet wounds and breakups, and yet the one thing they can’t seem to get past is how much has changed since Connor took Anderson’s name.

 

“Gavin...”

 

Gavin steps inside the elevator, unable to look at Connor, not with the way his name cracks in the lieutenant’s voice. It’s the end of something between them and Gavin’s not sure how many more of these he can take.

 

“See ya in a few days,” he says bitterly, releasing a shaky exhale as the doors between them close.

 

As a precaution, he temporarily blocks Connor on his phone.

 

Once he’s outside, he’s lighting up a cigarette, inhaling sharply and pretending it’s the biting cold piercing his face that has his eyes stinging. Fucking winter. March is underway and snow still sloshes under his feet as he walks to his car and he has no fucking idea what the hell he’s gonna do on a Tuesday morning, though he’s open to anything that involves copious amounts of alcohol.

 

He gets into his car, starts it, and lets it warm up. And somehow, now that he’s away from the prying eyes of his coworkers and superiors, everything he’s endured in the last hour crashes over him like a tidal wave. His hands tremble as he pulls the cigarette from his lips and he’s pinching the bridge of his nose tightly to hold back the unshed tears pooling in his eyes.

 

Fuck...it’s not fair. None of it is. Just as he was starting to feel he was back on track, Connor goes and pulls the rug out from under him and once again, he’s left scrambling to put himself together while everything around him is falling apart. This job is the one thing he has left to be proud of—this case the result of his efforts—and yeah, he’s mostly neglected following up on how Nines fits into all of this but he’s still been working on Kamski—and now the DPD’s new favorite duo, Anderson and Anderson, have gone and taken the last good thing Gavin had.

 

Well, not the last thing…

 

Exhaling shakily, he reaches for the glove compartment.

 

A feeling of elation fills him, eases the stress that’s been weighing him down, as he notices the text received on the old burner phone.

 

[9s Mar 8 10:13 AM]

_I have tried these Newports you always insist on smoking. Am not a fan._

 

Gavin actually snorts, finishing off the Newport he’s smoking and stubbing it out in the ashtray. His fingers fly across the touch keyboard as he types in his reply.

 

[Gavin Mar 8 10:47 AM]

_not all of us can afford ur snooty European shit_

 

[Gavin Mar 8 10:47 AM]

_b a patriot. smoke american_

 

[9s Mar 8 10:48 AM]

_I will smoke American once Americans develop good cigarettes._

 

Gavin finds himself chuckling as he imagines how Nines would deliver that, all that obnoxious superiority rolled into a charismatic lilt that always sounds like sex to the detective’s ears. Nines is quite particular about what he consumes and walks around like some god damn European model, every inch of him a display of flagrant luxury. It should annoy the fuck out of Gavin how prim the asshole is but it’s become so damn endearing, the detective tries not to think about the implications of that.

 

Hard to believe that up to 6 months ago, Gavin didn’t even know Connor had an estranged twin brother, not until CCTV facial recognition software identified ex-convict Richard Stern in a corrupted visual file the DPD managed to get their hands on. That opened an entirely different can of worms, led to more of those gut-wrenching fights Connor and Gavin always found themselves in, and once the truth was out, Gavin didn’t know if he could ever look at the man he thought was his best friend in the same way again.

 

He tries to push aside that dread that begins to settle in once more, distracts himself with the one thing in his life that doesn’t feel ready to fuck with him. Or, at least, in a way that he doesn’t want to be fucked with.

 

[Gavin Mar 8 10:49 AM]

_asshole_

 

The reply he gets is immediate.

 

[9s Mar 8 10:49 AM]

_As we’ve established ;)_

 

And fuck if that doesn’t bring up delicious memories of Nines tonguing him.

 

Gavin licks his dry lips, taps his fingers on his steering wheel. He’s debating if he should ask but it’s always Nines who initiates these things, usually with a flirty text and a dick pic. Never Gavin.

 

But right now, he wants nothing more than to be with the one man who doesn’t make him feel like a disappointing piece of shit.

 

[Gavin Mar 8 10:50 AM]

_u busy today?_

 

He doesn’t realize he’s holding his breath until his phone shakes in his hand and his eyes drop to the screen.

 

[9s Mar 8 10:51 AM]

_Quite, unfortunately._

 

[9s Mar 8 10:51 AM]

_Is there a reason you’re asking?_

 

Gavin swallows his disappointment, fingers already typing in ‘ _nuthin. forget it’_ but his thumb lingers on the send arrow. He never talks about work, not if he can help it, and Nines never tells him about whatever the fuck a ‘problem solver’ does when not smoking fancy cigarettes and drinking overpriced liquors in ritzy bars. It’s always been about sex and distraction and they don’t need to be anything more than that.

 

But then, he’s typing. And before he can help it, he’s sending.

 

[Gavin Mar 8 10:53 AM]

_shitty day at work. wanna c u_

 

And instantly regrets it. How fucking needy does that sound?

 

Gavin groans and drops his head on the steering wheel.

 

Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck

 

His phone buzzes in his hand. But he’s too afraid to check it, doesn’t want to read whatever quiet mockery or rejection Nines sent him. Nines has shit to do and it’s not like Gavin can expect him to drop everything every time the detective has a bad day.

 

Already forming a response to downplay his request, Gavin glances down at his phone.

 

[9s Mar 8 10:54 AM]

_Perhaps I can rearrange my schedule. How does 8 sound?_

 

And Gavin can’t help it as he finds himself grinning, his chest fluttering with a warm feeling as he’s typing back.

 

[Gavin Mar 8 10:56 AM]

_ya, i cn do that_

 

[9s Mar 8 10:57 AM]

_I will let you know the location. I think I have just the thing to make you feel better ;)_

 

Location? Now that has Gavin intrigued.

 

Before putting down his phone, the detective receives one more message. An image.

 

It’s Nines, shirtless, photo taken from the waist-up. His skin glistens, water dripping down firm pecs and hard abs and Gavin already feels the stirrings of his dick, grows hot as he thinks of all the times he’s traced his tongue along that pale skin. The playful wink on the gangster’s handsome face has Gavin snorting aloud because of course the fucker’s winking; he’s been teasing Gavin about that ever since Gavin admitted the other night that he can’t wink worth shit.

 

There’s a caption scrawled on the pic in neat, handwritten script:

 

_Things I can do better:_

_\- ;)_

_\- cook_

_\- you_

 

“Cocky fucker,” Gavin mumbles, with a shake of his head.

 

And the grin doesn’t leave his face as he drives home.

 

* * *

 

He steps off the elevator not minutes after eight, shoulders his overnight bag nervously, and proceeds down the hall towards the room number Nines had indicated in his last text. Part of him wishes there was a public restroom on this floor so he can duck in and check his hair for the umpteenth time that night, preen and fix his appearance until he grumbles in defeat and decides _Fuck it_ because no amount of gel or aftershave could save the disaster that is his face: his discounted body spray and threadbare clothing would have to do, though it doesn’t change how fucking out of his element he feels. Of course Nines would have to choose one of the ritziest hotels in the city to help Gavin forget about that shit show of a morning he had; Gavin swears the concierge had been two seconds away from sending security over to ‘kindly’ remove the detective from the building, nose upturning when he saw Gavin shuffle into the lobby, and it’s doing little to make him feel he has any right to be here.

 

He pauses in front of the door, swallows the panic that has him asking _What the fuck am I even doing?_ and not even for the reasons he should be asking that question, before he’s nervously rapping his knuckles on it.

 

“It’s open,” calls a voice from inside.

 

With a shaky exhale, Gavin slowly turns the knob.

 

The inside of the suite matches the restrained grandeur of the hallway, a blending of traditional elegance with modern luxury: the entrance leads into a living space complete with a marble fireplace, dark leather seating, and large, tinted windows that overlook the Detroit skyline. His worn shoes echo off deep cheery wood flooring as he steps inside, candlelight flickering and casting long shadows on the walls as he follows the sound of a bottle being opened, and he can’t help but feel like a pauper invited into the private chambers of some fairy tale prince, nearly stumbles into a side table and knocks over a vase that looks more expensive than any of the shit he has in his apartment. That panic begins to set in once more and what the fuck was Gavin even thinking, showing up in ripped, washed out denim and a shirt from some indie rock concert Chen dragged him out to a few summers back?

 

“I take it you had no trouble finding the place?”

 

And that nerve-laced hysteria Gavin’s quietly been building in his head dies as he drinks in the sight of one of the city’s most notorious criminals—“ _allegedly”_ as Nines always qualifies—leaning casually against the island separating the kitchen from the living room. He’s looking every bit like a sexy Bond villain as he finishes pouring a glass of wine, something undoubtedly as decadent as the suite’s décor. Clad in a suit complete with a matching, fitted vest, jacket abandoned on one of the island’s stools, Nines’ coy demeanor and the playful lifting of those soft lips have Gavin’s insides heating, desire roiling until his duffel’s slipping off his shoulder and falling to his feet.

 

Fuck, Nines has never looked hotter in a suit and Gavin’s pretty sure his brain’s stuck on an infinite loop of the fuckable sight before him.

 

“Wine?” Nines asks casually, setting down the bottle.

 

It takes a handful of seconds before Gavin realizes he should respond. He shakes his head.

 

Nines brings the glass to his lips, takes a generous sip. Gavin’s eyes are rapt on the way his Adam’s apple bobs with the action, imagines ravaging that pale flesh with his lips and teeth until he’s marking him and letting the whole world know _This handsome fucker’s mine._ When Nines’ tongue darts out to catch a stray drop before it can spill down his chin, a near feral sound erupts at the back of Gavin’s throat.

 

With a chuckle, Nines sets down the glass on the island. And then, he’s approaching Gavin, leather oxfords clicking on hard wood, a possessive gleam in those lust-blown eyes: he’s looking at the detective as if he’d burn the entire world to get to him and never has Gavin felt so wanted by anyone, feels that trepidation from minutes before dissipate completely.

 

By the time Nines is pulling Gavin into his arms, lips roughly claiming his in a heated, wanton kiss, he can hardly remember why he had been in such a shitty mood earlier.

 

“Feeling better yet?” Nines teases, runs his tongue along Gavin’s lower lip.

 

The detective chases it with his own, shudders when Nines surrenders to him, probes inside to lick the traces of alcohol that linger. He’s so fucking hard right now and all it takes is for Nines to be...well, _Nines_ , and Gavin’s practically dry humping him, gripping those hips firmly to keep the gangster pressed against him. “Oh fuck yeah.”

 

He attempts to kiss him again but then Nines is pulling back, a steadying hand firmly grasping the detective’s shoulder. Gavin’s _not_ pouting as mirth dances in the gangster’s eyes. “Relax, detective. We have the rest of the night. And perhaps longer, should you feel like spending the rest of your three day vacation making the most of this suite.”

 

Gavin roll’s his eyes, feeling the beginnings of his foul mood make a comeback. “Three day vacation? More like your prick of a brother and his shit bag husband ruining my fucking—”

 

Nines’ tuts and Gavin, reluctantly, allows the rant to die on his tongue. “Now, darling, what did we promise about tonight?”

 

And Gavin blushes a deep shade of red that he can feel heating the tips of his ears. Because Nines has never fucking called him that before and Gavin hates pet names, barely ever let Connor get away with using that shit on him but Christ, does something about the way the term of endearment spills off Nines’ lips make Gavin’s chest fill with something warm, makes his heart skip.

 

“None of that work shit,” Gavin mumbles, tries to tame his blush but it only seems to spread down to his neck as Nines smirks.

 

“I would have phrased it less crassly but, yes. Tonight is about _you_ , Gavin, and not the bumbling morons you work with who underestimate your capabilities. So, how about you allow someone who is more appreciative of your many _assets_ ,” and the smooth fucker slides his hand down Gavin’s back, grabs a generous handful of his ass, and squeezes, “to occupy your attention?”

 

Before Gavin can so much as utter a moan, Nines is stepping back towards the island, leans over it so the detective can get a good, hard look at that fucking gorgeous profile as he takes another sip from his glass of wine. When Gavin catches the gangster’s gaze, he winks.

 

“You never let shit go, do you?” Gavin complains.

 

Of course, the asshole’s the picture of fucking innocence as he places his glass back down. “Why, I have no idea what you could be referring to.”

 

His fingers tap along the surface of the counter top, pulling up a touch panel for the hotel. “I was thinking of having room service bring something up. Is there anything in particular you’re in the mood for?”

 

Gavin comes up behind Nines, slides his arms around the gangster’s waist. He mouths at the back of Nines’ neck, at what little skin peeks above the shirt collar, and is rewarded with a sharp intake of breath. His hand ghosts over Nines’ erection, still half-hard from when Gavin had been grinding up on him. “In the mood for something else, babe.”

 

“Is that so?” Nines says, closing the panel. His breaths come out even but Gavin can hear the hitch in the gangster’s voice, tongues the edge of his ear, as Nines’ answers, “The hotel has a wide array of amenities available: a weight room, indoor pool, sauna, bar...”

 

He rubs Nines through his pants, nibbles at the lobe he’s teasing before he bites down with just the right amount of pressure to have Nines swallowing a moan. Gavin presses so his cock is digging into the gangster’s ass and yeah, he doubts Nines would ever allow it but wouldn’t that be something, bending the cocky asshole over and fucking him until he’s spilling hot in Gavin’s hand? “Something we can do in here.”

 

By now, Nines is at full mast and he shifts to face Gavin, stifling a sound as the detective rolls his hips against the gangster’s. He cradles Gavin’s face in his hands, bumps his nose coyly against the detective’s as if he’s making an aborted attempt at a kiss. “Well, there is a wide screen television with a number of streaming networks and satellite. Or an office if you are in need of a computer or a fax machine.”

 

Gavin groans but not from how fucking amazing Nines cock feels as he grinds against it. Well, maybe partly. “Fuck sakes, you’re gonna make me say it, aren’t you?”

 

“I have many talents but telepathy isn’t one of them.”

 

“You know what I want, asshole.”

 

“I am left to wonder how any man could resist such charm.”

 

“Nines,” Gavin whines, his fingers fumbling with the impossible clasp on the gangster’s belt, “fucking Christ, would you help me get your pants off so I can suck you already?”

 

“...I have no reason to deny such an enticing request.”

 

Gavin snorts and resists rolling his eyes because despite ending up with the Stern twin with the most questionable morals, he is somehow also fucking a complete dork and yeah, he was not expecting Nines to give Connor a run for his money on that front. The lopsided smirk Nines gives him has the detective’s heart hammering in his chest in an unexpected wave of fondness.

 

Suddenly, he can’t imagine going back to what his life had been before the warehouse.

 

But he’s not about to get hung up on what that means, with Nines’ belt undone and Gavin pushing aside Nines’ hand to slowly pull down the fly. He watches the gangster pull his lower lip between his perfect, white teeth to bite back a low groan as Gavin’s hand slips inside Nines’ underwear.

 

“Don’t you dare hold back,” Gavin all but growls, grasping Nines’ shaft and pulling his cock free. The gangster gives a low hiss as Gavin rolls his thumb over the head, slicking pearls of precum that have beaded on the tip. “I wanna fucking hear you.”

 

That hiss becomes a moan as Gavin gives the shaft a firm stroke, collecting what little slick weeps from Nines’ dick to wet his dry palm. He leans in, noses the gangster’s Adam’s apple, mouths at the milky white flesh until he’s drawing it between his lips, suckling. He is going to leave a god damn mark because he’s got no fucking idea where Nines fucks off to when he’s not buried in Gavin’s ass but wherever that is, everyone’s gonna know Nines is _taken_. “G-Gavin!”

 

Gavin pumps his fist on Nines’ shaft, tongues at the bruising he’s left on the gangster’s skin. Fingers lace through his hair, tug roughly at the dark strands and it sends blood flowing straight to Gavin’s cock. “Fuck, you sound so hot saying my name, babe.”

 

The gangster moans it again, voice breaking on the second syllable, and Gavin’s surging upward, kissing those parted lips hungrily, swallowing every sound he’s eliciting as he jacks off his lover. The slap of Nines thrusting up into his hand has Gavin’s own cock aching from neglect and he’s about ready to drop to his knees, take him into his mouth, and let Nines fuck his throat raw.

 

There’s a low buzzing that Gavin barely notices, not at first. He’s far too focused on kissing the line of Nines’ jaw, twisting his wrist with that perfect balance of friction and pressure to have Nines utter a string of sounds he knows he’ll be remembering later, if “business” keeps the gangster away and Gavin needs to take matters into his own hands.

 

But then, the buzzing grows more insistent and Gavin feels Nines still against him, a hand coming to his wrist to stop the detective. Gavin’s already cursing as the gangster reaches for his phone, a dark look passing over his face as he sees the caller ID.

 

“Nines, what the fu—”

 

The glare he directs at Gavin silences the detective.

 

He inhales deeply, tries to control his uneven breaths. He’s practically barking as he answers his phone. “What?”

 

And in the brief duration of whatever information is being exchanged, Gavin watches as Nines’ expression goes from pissed off to downright murderous. “I’ll see to it immediately.”

 

He sets down his phone and it shocks Gavin that he’s exhibiting that much control as Nines looks ready to break the nearest object he can get his hands on. Instead, he’s tucking himself back into his pants, stepping around Gavin, and retrieving a pair of leather gloves sitting on the counter near his firearm. Gavin feels a growing sense of dread building inside his chest and it’s only confirmed as Nines mutters, darkly, “I have a matter that needs taking care of and must step out for a moment.”

 

He pulls on the leather gloves and Gavin’s briefly distracted by how downright sexy it looks, wonders how that leather would feel on his—

 

But then his brain catches up with what Nines just said and suddenly, not even Nines looking hot as fuck and holstering his gun can pacify the anger Gavin’s experiencing.

 

“So, what? You invite me all the way out here and now you’re just gonna fucking bounce?”

 

There’s a coolness to Nines’ gaze as he darts his eyes to the detective, enough that it has a shiver trickling down Gavin’s spine. Those lips curl in a scowl and the message is clear: Nines does not like the tone Gavin’s using with him. “Evidently, I am surrounded by morons and need to do everything myself. It should take no more than an hour, perhaps two.”

 

“And you just expect me to sit around and wait for your ass to get back?”

 

“There’s a lot you can occupy yourself with while I’m gone: order food, raid the liquor cabinet, or use the Jacuzzi if you feel so inclined. The facilities are adequate so you mustn’t feel as if you need to confine yourself to this suite.”

 

“That’s besides the point,” Gavin snaps. “What the fuck happened to ‘no work shit’ tonight?”

 

“Some of us do not have the luxury of a night off. While I have done my best to accommodate your schedule, I still have responsibilities that, unfortunately, means we will have to put the night on temporary hold.”

 

“Yeah? Well, fuck your responsibilities!”

 

“Gavin.”

 

He sounds so much like Connor in the way that he admonishes the detective, emphasis placed on each syllable of his name, that it makes something inside Gavin snap. He has all the warning to back down: the tensing of Nines’ posture, the muted rage that passes over the gangster’s face. Gavin should know better than to fuel the flames he’s ignited but he’s a creature of habit and would rather fan them with sharper barbs than smother them.

 

“No, seriously, fuck that noise! You knew the fucking rules when we started this: all that shit stays out _there_ ,” and he’s pointing emphatically to the door, “and if you think I’m gonna stick around and let you fuck off to do something illegal, you’re about to get a sad wake up call!”

 

“I have entertained your inane rule to keep my... _work_ to myself. Yet, I offer no illusions as to who I am and what it is I do,” Nines says, his voice carrying that dangerous edge Gavin’s seen make his low life thugs near shit themselves. “I am left to wonder what nonsense you tell yourself to justify allowing _this_ and yet taking objection when my work calls me briefly away.”

 

“Because now I’m fucking complacent to whatever bullshit Kamski’s got you doing!”

 

That name has cracks forming in the precarious control Nines is showing, his brow twitching and his gloved hand clenching into a firm fist. He appears ready to lash out, takes a step towards Gavin with a look in his eyes that’s feral in its fury, and Gavin finds he’s unconsciously stepping back against the island.

 

“Then what,” he all but hisses, leaning over Gavin, using his superior height to intimidate the detective, “would you have me do?”

 

And Gavin is intimidated. Fuck, he’s downright _terrified_ because Nines is wearing the look of a man who is ready to kill—who has _killed—_ and this is when he should be doing damage control, not prodding the sleeping beast, if he hopes to see another day.

 

But there’s no denying the stirrings of something hot festering low in his chest, fear-laced adrenaline sending a signal straight to his dick. This is the point at which most people would fall to their knees and beg for mercy but Gavin’s always been too fucking careless for that shit, takes both of them by surprise when he’s yanking Nines down towards him by his shirt collar and crushes their lips together. There’s nothing at all gentle in Nines pressing into the kiss, his grip painful on Gavin’s shoulders, teeth biting down on Gavin’s lower lip until they’re drawing blood and Gavin’s fucking _moaning_ into it, would rather Nines inflict his anger on his flesh than in words neither will be able to take back. Gavin’s been burned before by his stupid, fucking mouth and he knows that if they say anything else, he’ll burn himself again and lose the one thing worth keeping in his life.

 

Too soon, Nines is breaking the kiss, exhaling shakily. He tries to pull away but Gavin’s gripping him tightly, uttering a word so pathetic and desperate, he knows he’ll be regretting it but he can’t stop himself. “Stay.”

 

_Please._

 

And there’s an odd look on Nines’ face, all that anger and bravado fading into something Gavin can’t quite place.

 

“I can’t,” Nines says, quietly.

 

Hurt fills Gavin’s chest but he does as he always has, buries it until his face is twisting in its cruelty and he’s shoving the gangster off of him. “Then fucking leave already!”

 

“Gavin—”

 

“You want to be Kamski’s fucking lapdog, I’m not going to stop you!”

 

It’s the building of everything that’s been wrong with this day and Gavin knows he can’t stop, even if he wanted to. All he wanted was to have tonight to forget all the shit that went down and of course, he can’t even have fucking _that_ because the universe has decided to piss on him once more and he should have fucking known better than to send that stupid text to Nines earlier.

 

But Nines has also reached the end of his patience and for the first time that night, he’s also raising his voice.

 

“You are being entirely unreasonable! I am trying to salvage this evening and yet you insist of projecting your insecurities and ruining our night! All I’m asking is for two hours, Gavin! Two _fucking_ hours!”

 

“And I’m not gonna wait around while you fucking bail on me!” Gavin shouts. “So, you want some fucking options, then here they are: you even think of walking out that fucking door, don’t expect me to be here when you get back!”

 

The tension in the room is so thick, it’s stifling, and both of them are choking on a rage neither are able to tame. Stubbornness is a family trait for the Sterns but Gavin’s come equipped with enough to match, let’s his ultimatum hang in the air and the implications of it crush Nines beneath its weight.

 

_You walk out of here, it’s fucking over!_ is the implication and while a tiny voice in his head is telling Gavin to take back his words, there’s a louder one that’s screaming over that, challenging the gangster to test how fucking serious Gavin is.

 

And then, with restraint that’s so controlled, it’s infuriating, Nines is throwing on his coat and shutting the door behind him. The absence of a _SLAM!_ Gavin’s become used to from all the times he fought with Connor, the near silent clicking of the closing door, hangs in the air for a long moment, the detective glaring as if he can see through the walls, his snarl able to follow Nines to the elevator.

 

Then, in a fit of anger, Gavin chucks the half-full glass of wine at the door, shouts, “PRICK!” as it shatters and stains the oak in rivulets of deep red.

 

He hopes the fucker cuts his own feet on the shards of glass when he drags his ass back here and finds the place empty.

  
Allowing only another minute or so to pass, Gavin’s hastily picking up his duffel bag and storming out of the room. He stews in his own rage, all the way from the hotel back to his apartment, cussing out other drivers as he recklessly tears through the streets and nearly causing an accident as he turns on a red. He doesn’t deflate, not until he’s slamming the door behind him, chucking his keys onto the coffee table and throwing down his bag. It’s the silence that follows that slowly lets the hurt surface and he feels a harsh stinging at the corners of his eyes, blinks back the evidence of his regret and swallows heavily.

 

_Good fucking riddance_ , he tries telling himself.

 

He doesn’t need that asshole.

 

* * *

 

 

Six hours and half a pack of cigarettes later, Gavin decides that maybe he does need that asshole.

 

The last of his Newports burns between his lips, ashes dusting off its tip onto his shirt, as he stares miserably down at the burner phone he holds, willing a notification to pop up. He’s done this song and dance before, got into it so bad with Connor that there were a number of times they would hardly speak to each other for _days_ , beyond clipped answers and the bare minimal interactions required at work. Even back then, they had established a turn system for their arguments: sometimes, Gavin would be the one crashing at Tina’s or Hank’s and at others, it would be Connor, and it would last until someone caved, someone said sorry first.

 

That man was _never_ Gavin. And, eventually, Connor stopped being the one to extend the olive branch, learned to remove the word ‘sorry’ from his vocabulary. Apologies became hate fucking, which bled into resentment, and round and round they went, like clockwork.

 

And now, Gavin’s repeating that cycle, sitting at home like a fucking moron when he should be uptown drinking vintage wine and making good use of that jacuzzi. He fucking hates wine but tonight wasn’t supposed to be about _what_ but _who_ he should be with.

 

Gavin knows that this is all on him. That he’s the one who fucked up. That all it takes is one five letter word and that he should be the one to say it, should be the _only_ one saying it.

 

But he also knows that he _won’t_.

 

Because he’s a stubborn piece of shit.

 

_Fucking message me already, asshole_ , he silently begs.

 

He stabs out his cigarette in the ashtray. Ashes fly everywhere as the thought suddenly hits him, his chest growing tight.

 

What if the reason Nines hasn’t is because he’s done with Gavin and all his bullshit?

 

“Fuck,” he utters, breathes in heavily to stave off the wave of sadness his weary body threatens to succumb to.

 

He startles when he hears something crash against the front door. Reaching for his gun, he switches off the safety, rises to his full height, and creeps towards the entrance. His guess is it’s one of his idiot neighbors drunk off their ass and trying to get into the wrong apartment. Wouldn’t be the first time. Yet instinct has him erring on the side of caution because you never know what kind of sick fuck’s are out there.

 

He peers through the peephole, can make out a figure slumped against his door.

 

He rolls his eyes and sets down his gun onto the nearby side table.

 

Great. A fucking drunk.

 

There was a time when he would have tried to help the fucker, at the very least help him back on his feet and push him towards the direction of his own apartment so he’d get the fuck off Gavin’s door. But Gavin’s not in the fucking mood for this shit tonight, is about to head back to his couch to sulk, when something about the figure clicks in his brain.

 

Gavin recognizes that coat.

 

There’s a hammering in his chest, a thickness in his throat that has him too afraid to open that door, to have that little seed of hope dashed. But his apprehension is short lived as he realizes there’s something off about all of this.

 

If Nines wanted to see Gavin, he certainly wouldn’t be slumped against his front door and waiting for the detective to open it.

 

Something must be really fucking _wrong._

 

Hastily, Gavin’s unlocking the door and throwing it open. “Nines, what the fu—?”

 

He nearly topples over as the 6”2’ criminal stumbles into him, Gavin only barely able to hold both of them up. Though sharing a similar tall and slightly wiry frame with Connor, Nines has a lot more muscle on him and Gavin wouldn’t be surprised if the fucker benches with some of the meaty-looking grunts he knows are running drops for Kamski. It has him stepping back a few paces, exhaling painfully as Nines throws his arms around Gavin to keep from falling and Gavin’s about ready to repeat the expletive when he notes an odd wetness beginning to seep into his shirt.

 

“Nines!”

 

His voice hitches with panic and the gangster blearily lifts his sweat-soaked face, disheveled hair sticking to his forehead. Something is weakly shoved to Gavin’s chest and there’s a sinking guilt that has his expression softening as he stares down at the crushed bouquet of red roses, most of which were now missing numerous petals, one that was entirely stem and absent of flower. It was a sad display but fuck if the gesture doesn’t have Gavin’s eyes prickling, his grip on Nines tightening. And he doesn’t even like flowers. “I brought these for you.”

 

The words slur and not in the way they would if Nines was wasted. There’s a nauseating smell that blends with the sweet scent of roses and Nines’ musky cologne, something metallic.

 

And that’s the moment Gavin notices all the blood.

 

“Fucking Christ, Nines, are you bleeding?!”

 

The gangster glares at Gavin, clearly put off by such a question. “I am not—ah, right. The gunshot wound.”

 

“THE WHAT??!?!!?!”

 

And Gavin’s frantically moving Nines to the couch, almost has both of them falling onto it as he clumsily helps Nines into a sitting position. The gangster bites back a grunt but Gavin doesn’t miss the brief look of pain that passes over his face. “A gunshot wound. As in, an injury that has been inflicted by the passing of a bullet through one’s skin.”

 

“I know what a fucking gunshot wound is!” Gavin snaps, his voice pitching as he hastily begins opening Nines’ shirt. His fingers are trembling so bad, they keep slipping over the buttons and he gives up and ends up tearing open the shirt and vest. There’s so much blood—too much, seeping out of a wound that hasn’t properly closed, just below Nines’ left clavicle. It looks like it was hastily sterilized but, otherwise, neglected. “We have to get you to a hospital!”

 

“If I had desired to seek medical assistance, do you not think I would have done so?” The irritation is clear on Nines’ face and Gavin’s about ready to slap the moron. “Hospitals require patient registration. I have no desire to leave a paper trail over a miscalculation.”

 

Gavin rips off his shirt—it’s full of blood now, anyway—and balls it up, pressing it against the wound. He knows he’s near that point of hysteria and he buries it beneath anger, saying, sharply, “A ‘miscalculation’? You’re fucking bleeding out on my sofa!”

 

Despite being so woozy, Nines gives the couch a long, contemplative look. “Actually, this appears to be the same sofa my mother purchased the year of my graduation.”

 

In truth, it did come from the Stern household, something Connor left behind after moving out. He hadn’t bothered taking any of his furniture with him since there was no space for it at Hank’s— _their_ house.

 

“Not the fucking point, smart ass.”

 

Gavin has Nines hold the shirt in place, grabs his phone to begin calling 9-1-1. He doesn’t give a shit what the gangster wants: he’s not about to let him die on his couch. “Look, let’s—”

 

But Nines grasps Gavin’s wrist with his other hand, his grip strong. “No. Hospitals.”

 

“Then what the fuck do you expect me to do?”

 

“Surely, you must have some sort of first aid kit. You cohabited with my…less attractive twin,” and Gavin makes a sound of disbelief because the fuckers are practically identical, “for so long, and he is the type of individual who would have the foresight to assemble one.”

 

It’s probably the closest Nines will ever come to saying anything positive about the other Stern. Anderson. Whatever.

 

“...this is fucking stupid,” Gavin grumbles, getting up to retrieve the kit he keeps in the entrance closet. He kicks the front door closed, tries not to look down at the bloody fingerprints he’s smeared on the surface of the kit he’s clutching. The only thing keeping himself from breaking down is letting his anger escalate. “Why the hell didn’t you deal with this shit on your own?!”

 

He sits down on the coffee table, opens the kit so roughly, it nearly slips off his lap. It’s been some years since he used it—there had been a time, before universal health care, when he’s had to remove a bullet or seal a knife wound, all to avoid the cost of a hospital procedure. Yet, it still has everything he needs and he’s pulling out alcohol solution, needle, thread, tweezers, and adhesive, and setting it down beside him.

 

“You seemed quite upset after I ruined our night,” Nines says, quietly. He reaches with great effort for the bouquet of damaged roses now beside him and extends it to Gavin. “I wanted to make amends so I sought out a means to do so.”

 

Gavin looks at the offering, his throat thick with everything he should say but that he knows he’s too much of a coward to. He takes the roses, places them behind him, finds his voice cracking as he practically snarls, “Yeah, well if you hadn’t fucking walked out, maybe you wouldn’t have been shot.”

 

He tries not to think of the idiot running around the city all to try and appease the ungrateful asshole he has the misfortune of fucking. Gavin tries not to think about it because it’s too _much_ and his vision is swimming, fingers shaking so hard, he can’t keep his hand steady as he dribbles solution to disinfect the wound.

 

“Hindsight is twenty-twenty.”

 

“Now’s not the time to be a wise ass!” He disinfects the tweezers, positions them where the skin has been pieced. He doesn’t like knowing how two inches to the right would have ruptured a lung, and a few inches below that… “This shit’s all on you and you can’t just expect me to forget all that—”

 

Nines hisses as Gavin plunges the tweezers into the wound, doesn’t have to go too deep before he’s feeling the bullet. “—just because your dumb ass got shot and—”

 

He pulls it out, drops both the tweezers and bullet onto the table because his hands won’t stop shaking. “—you’re fucking running around the city like a fucking idiot—”

 

“Gav—”

 

But it’s only making him angrier, has his voice raising and audibly cracking as he pointedly avoids Nines’ questioning eyes, vision so blurred, he can’t make out where he put the sewing needle. “—instead of going to a fucking hospital—”

 

“Gavin—”

 

“—you god damn psychopath! You fucking…!”

 

And his rant dies, a tear spilling shamefully down his cheek as he stares down, sees the fingers laced in his. Nines’ grip is weak but steady, a bulwark against the emotions raging in Gavin’s chest, the fear that’s clutched him in its icy embrace. Nines is _here_ and to think that he almost _wasn’t_ , that he could have died and Gavin’s last words to him would have been that stupid ultimatum—

 

“You’re really worried about me.”

 

There’s disbelief in Nines’ voice, uttered so quietly, as if the gangster was speaking more to himself than to Gavin. The detective is shocked to see something so naked—so vulnerable—in the expression Nines wears: gone is that easy charisma, the careful facade of control that Gavin’s only ever seen crack with rage or lust. For once, the gangster is an open book and there’s no pretense, only the shock that someone gives a shit about him.

 

And Gavin does.

 

Perhaps more than he’s ready to admit to himself.

 

“Of course I am.”

 

Nines squeezes his hand, tugs gently, his gray eyes filled with something Gavin is too afraid to identify. Gavin allows himself to be pulled forward, knees ending up on either side of Nines’ thighs but careful enough to not settle any weight on him. He brushes aside the hairs that have stuck to Nines’ forehead, his touch lingering on the wet strands. There’s a dull thudding in his chest and he knows now is the time to say it, that he _has_ to say it, before he lets pride tempt him down a path he’s tread too many fucking times before.

 

“I’m sorry.”

 

And he can’t hold it back once it’s out there.

 

“I’m so fucking sorry, I...”

 

Another tear dribbles down to his chin.

 

“You fucking tried and—and I fucking ruined everything. I—”

 

He shivers as dry lips press to his jaw, taking with them one of his tears. He knows it’s not enough, that there’s so much more he needs to say, but then Nines is tilting his face up, dragging his lips over stubble until he’s finding Gavin’s. And then he’s kissing him and this was everything Gavin almost threw away because of his damaged pride so he’s kissing him back eagerly, shuddering into it as he’s cradling Nines’ face.

 

“I’m sorry,” he’s gasping between kisses, more tender than with any hunger, says it repeatedly so Nines knows this isn’t some fluke, that Gavin really means it.

 

There’s a gentle huff of air exhaled against his lips, and Nines’ mouth quirks. “I would say ‘all’s forgiven’ but I’m rather enjoying this rare display of humility.”

 

“Asshole,” Gavin mutters but there’s no malice in it and he lightly punches Nines in the shoulder. He immediately regrets it when the gangster winces painfully. Oh. Right. “Shit! S-sorry, I forgot...”

 

“That was, perhaps, deserved.”

 

Though Nines tries to play it off as nothing, Gavin can see he’s straining to keep from grimacing. Leaning back, the detective retrieves the needle and thread from the table. With the entry wound swiped clean, he can see that it should take no more than a couple of stitches to seal it. “Gonna finish patching this up. How’d you end up getting shot, anyway?”

 

He disinfects the needle, threads the string through the eye of it.

 

“Would you prefer the version that lacks implications of activities of questionable legality or are you expecting blunt honesty?”

 

He pierces the needle through Nines’ skin and although the gangster tenses beneath him, gives away little discomfort. “Humor me.”

 

“Well, then let’s just say a potential client made his displeasure of an offer quite clear.”

 

Gavin snorts. “Yeah, I’ll fucking say. You get him back?”

 

Nines hesitates. Gavin almost suspects that he’s hurting Nines as he continues to stitch together the suture but one glance at the gangster’s face finds the injured man contemplating how to respond to the detective’s question. “He...shouldn’t be a problem for us any longer.”

 

“Good.”

 

And it surprises Gavin how earnestly he means that, how part of him almost hopes the DPD finds the fucker’s body, bled out and left in some abandoned warehouse or wherever the fuck Nines conducts ‘business interactions’. If Nines did shoot back, he hopes the asshole fucking suffered in the last seconds of his miserable life.

 

It startles him how easily his thoughts meander down that dark path and he has to distract himself with applying the final knot in the thread, then finishing by pressing an adhesive bandage over the wound. He lets his thumb rub at a mole in the middle of Nines’ sternum, tries to ignore that numb sensation eating the inside of his chest. Dried blood is splattered across the gangster’s chest, and most likely beneath the material still covering his left shoulder. Carefully, Gavin begins to tug the shirt and vest down Nines’ arms. “I should...”

 

His words die on his lips as he sees the lust blown in Nines eyes. They are studying him, intently, as if seeing those malicious thoughts Gavin’s struggling to keep buried in the deepest corner of his mind, lock them away so never again will he find himself questioning the precarious line he’s drawn in the sand. It seems the longer he’s with Nines, the easier it is to step over it, draw new lines that make Gavin question what kind of person he is.

 

But when Nines is looking at him like _that_ , sliding a hand up Gavin’s back, his touch setting alight the detective’s skin until every nerve ending feels ready to burst into flame, he finds it easier and easier to let that guilt go.

 

In an unexpected burst of adrenaline, Nines is flipping Gavin down onto his back, carefully sliding over the detective, his lips claiming his in a hungry kiss. And Gavin’s responding even before his brain is catching up with what is happening, his filling cock pressing up into Nines’ thigh, tongue stroking against the gangster’s as a low moan erupts in his throat. Fuck, does he want— _need_ to feel Nines, has been wanting this all night, ever since that stupid fight and—

 

And then, he’s remembering there is a very good reason to _not_ be doing this, as near painful as it is for him to do the right fucking thing.

 

He breaks off the kiss, pushes gently at Nines’ right shoulder. “Nines— _ng_!”

 

Nines tongue dips between his parted lips and Gavin’s once again kissing him. It takes even more willpower to turn his head away, though his own body betrays him by arching up as Nines begins kissing his neck. “N-Nines... _fuck_...N-Nines...Nines, stop!”

 

It’s as effective as any safe word and the gangster immediately halts, hovers above Gavin on shaky arms to keep any part of him from touching the detective. There’s a questioning look in his eyes, sweat dotting his forehead, and he’s grimacing as he holds himself up. “I am sorry. I hadn’t meant to cross any boundaries.”

 

Gavin could scream for how dense the handsome idiot can be sometimes, though he’s quickly answering, “N-no, not...fuck, you must’ve felt how much I want it, babe—”

 

“Then let me give it to you,” Nines purrs, grinding his hips against Gavin’s. The detective fails to swallow a whimper, shivers as the gangster’s tongue licks across his collarbone.

 

“Nines, I’m serious. You’ve been shot.”

 

“I assure you I am still very capable of performing.”

 

“Nobody’s questioning if your dick works. I’m saying you _shouldn’t_ , not that you _can’t_ , moron.”

 

“You know what it does to me when you use such sweet words,” Nines says, dryly. “However, as I am in a generous mood, I can overlook your poor bedside manner.”

 

And he starts planting gentle kisses across Gavin’s chest.

 

“Nines.”

 

“Gavin.”

 

Then Nines uses the one tactic in his arsenal he has never subjected Gavin to. The asshole fucking _pouts._

 

There was a time Gavin would have given in immediately, let the idiot fuck him until his wound reopened and he would probably end up a near dead mess of blood and sweat as Gavin frantically called 9-1-1. Gavin of seven years ago, when he was a young detective on the cusp of 30 and found himself paired with an even younger partner who had a gorgeous pair of large, brown eyes, would have been weak enough to give into _anything_ when a look like that was directed at him.

 

But, fortunately, Gavin’s had years of practice to become desensitized to the infamous Stern pout. And yeah, there’s still that brief moment of uncertainty where Gavin’s resolve falters because it’s endearing as all hell, but he knows better than to give in.

 

“Yeah, that shit’s not gonna work on me,” Gavin says. Then, with a not-so-innocent smirk, he adds, “But, I’ll tell you what: if you can stand up and walk a straight line into the bedroom without my help then, yeah, we’ll fuck.”

 

Nines scoffs. “You present this as if it’s a challenge.”

 

“What I said, big shot: you make it in there and I’ll bend in any position you want. _Any._ ”

 

And that gets the gangster’s attention.

 

“You’ll be eating those words, detective, as, I assure you, I have quite the imagination.”

 

He gets up shakily on his legs, straightens his posture. Then, almost as soon as he attempts to lift his foot, he falters, catching himself on the arm of the couch. Gavin feels like an ass for laughing, gets up to try and help Nines but the gangster’s already waving him off.

 

“I demand one more attempt at your silly challenge,” he grits out.

 

“C’mon, Nines. You don’t need to prove shit.”

 

“One. More. Attempt.”

 

Gavin sighs, let’s the idiot try once again. It’s probably a dick move to let this go on but he opts to have his point proven, lingers close enough to keep Nines from falling on his ass.

 

The second attempt is a lot better than the first as Nines makes it most of the way to the bedroom, albeit on unsteady legs. It almost seems as if he’s about to prove Gavin wrong but then his legs give out and Gavin’s catching the injured criminal, straining under the extra weight to keep both of them upright. Nines drops his sweaty head to Gavin’s neck and releases a pained groan.

 

“Perhaps we should consider postponing it for another time.”

 

“Ya think?”

 

But Gavin’s chuckling despite it all, even as his arms ache to keep Nines against him. He helps him into the next room, settles him down onto his back on the unmade bed and looks him over: now that Nines is shirtless, he can see some bruising on the gangster’s sides, though that most likely was from stumbling into things as Nines escaped whatever shit went down earlier. There’s still a lot of dried blood on his chest and shoulder, some of it now smeared onto Gavin, and Gavin makes to get something to clean them up when Nines grasps his hand.

 

“I know you were hoping this night had gone differently,” he starts, and there’s no denying how regretful he is as he continues, “I want you to know, Gavin, that I am truly sorry for not living up to your expectations.”

 

And Gavin can’t stand hearing such words coming from him, not when there’s a bouquet of roses sitting on his coffee table and a handsome idiot lying in his bed who half bled to death trying to make things right while Gavin had moped about at home over a fight that _he_ started.

 

“Nines,” he begins, squeezing the gangster’s hand tightly, “you’re the toughest bad ass I know. And yeah, maybe you can also be scary and creepy as shit but the one thing you’ll never be is a disappointment.”

 

Perhaps there’s something almost a bit too real in the way Nines’ guard drops, has him looking away and focusing on the cracks in the bedroom wall.

 

“I’ll, uh, get something to clean you up.”

 

He leaves Nines alone, lets him school the vulnerability Gavin’s accidentally exposed, as Gavin heads into the kitchen. It’s nearly four in the god damn morning and at least he doesn’t have to be up in a few hours or he knows he’ll be feeling the stress from today all during his shift. Plus, he’s still not ready to face Connor, needs a few days to let it all sink in that by the end of this week, they’ll have officially ended a seven year partnership.

 

He pulls out a clean wash cloth, fills a mixing bowl with warm water, and then grabs a hand towel. His eyes fall to an old vase used less than a handful of times over the years, tucked at the corner of the counter: Gavin’s done the whole flowers thing on a few anniversaries, as Connor was more into it, and that’s the only reason they even had a vase.

 

After filling it half way, he sets it down on the coffee table and places the roses in it. A few petals fall and it really is a glorious, fucking mess of a gift but somehow, it’s more _them_ than if the roses had remained intact.

 

...when did he start thinking of him and Nines as a _them_?

 

Dismissing the thought, he takes the bowl and towels into the bedroom. Setting all of it on the night stand, he then soaks the wash cloth in the warm water, strains it, and begins dabbing at the dried blood on Nines’ shoulder. Nines remains quiet, cool eyes following Gavin’s hand, though Gavin notes how much more exhausted the gangster appears.

 

Once Gavin starts working lower, careful to avoid the bandaging, that’s when Nines finally breaks the comfortable silence.

 

“I have the suite for another two nights,” he mentions, casually.

 

But there’s a hint of color in his cheeks and Gavin realizes, that in the nearly two months since this started, he’s never seen the gangster look so bashful.

 

Gavin’s face also begins to heat and why the fuck does it make him feel this giddy? It’s just gonna be sex. It’s not like anything’s changed between them.

 

_It’s just sex._

 

That’s all it’s ever been about with them.

 

Shit. And there he goes again: _them._

 

“Uh, yeah, that’s uh...yeah,” he mumbles, wiping away the last of the blood. He drops the cloth into the bowl and takes the hand towel, starts drying off the remaining droplets dotting Nines’ abs. “Oh, uh, did you put down a security deposit?”

 

Nines quirks a brow and it only makes Gavin’s blush deepen.

 

“Yeah, so, I may have chucked your wine at the door...”

 

The gangster gives a hearty chuckle, throwing back his head and exposing that long neck of his. And Gavin can see it there, implanted in the pale flesh in a pattern of purple and red bruising, the marks he had left earlier.

 

_Mine,_ Nines’ flesh is calling to him and he can’t fight the wave of affection that suddenly afflicts him, threads his fingers through the gangster’s as he takes his hand.

 

“Had you not,” Nines says, once his laughter has died down, though there’s still humor in his tone, “I would have to seriously reconsider our arrangement. I should perhaps disclose that property damage is one of my kinks.”

 

“...that’s fucked up.”

 

“Would you have me any other way?”

 

_No,_ Gavin thinks as he allows Nines to pull him down for a soft and tender kiss. _No, I would fucking not._

 

**Author's Note:**

> Out of curiosity, would anyone want to read Nines' POV? Let's just say I have...ideas.


End file.
